


I Guess One Must Care

by captaincravatthecapricious



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canon Asexual Character, Discussions of Food, Fever, Flu, Gen, Nausea, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sick Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sickfic, reluctant caretaker tim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26881258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincravatthecapricious/pseuds/captaincravatthecapricious
Summary: A flu has been going around the archives.  Jon finally catches it, and Tim finds himself picking up the pieces.  (This can be Jonmartim or platonic).  (Rated Teen for swears.)
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Comments: 28
Kudos: 195





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s a sickfic I might finish but I should probably just post here now in case I never do.   
> I was going to have this set in an AU of season 4 where Tim ended up in the coffin and Jon ends up rescuing both Tim and Daisy, but I didn't feel like trying to explain all that in the story. So, keep that in mind if you want.   
> CW vomit mention, but no actual vomit.   
> I might add another chapter. But I might not.   
> First time posting, so let me know if anything is funky with the format or something!

Jon isn’t sure where he thought he’d wake up. Possibly at his desk? Or in his bed? (Unlikely). Does he even still have a bed? The institute floor if he was unlucky? The break room couch or the cot if he was considerably more lucky. The point is, he feels like shit and he didn’t remember going to sleep. Which probably wasn’t a good sign. He lets himself drift for a while longer. 

Jon wakes in fits and starts. 

One moment he’s mostly aware the next he’s snapping back awake thus leading him to the conclusion that he wasn’t before. A cycle that he is stuck in for several minutes. He is not aware enough to properly examine where he might actually be. 

He’s too dizzy to think and his eyes feel gummy and puffy, and everything hurts. 

Sick? Is he sick? Not statement sick, but properly sick? 

Yes that tracks. Sore throat. Queasy. Headache. 

Ugh. 

He lays there for a while longer. And promptly drops back off. 

~~~~~~~

Jon stirs in Tim’s lap. Be blinks a few times and groans. Jon has been all but passed out in Tim’s lap for hours. 

He isn’t even sure why he bothered. 

Tim sighs. He knows Jon is awake now, and he very much needs Jon to have some liquids. And some fever reducers. “Jon?” He asks softly. He doesn’t want to frighten Jon. 

Jon’s shaky breathing catches in what Tim very much fears is a sob. What the hell is he supposed to say to a crying Jon? “Tim?” Jon’s response is quavering and damp. He still hasn’t really moved. Tim is more than a little worried that Jon doesn’t seem to have the energy to even shift position. 

“Back with me?” Christ, Tim hopes Jon is. 

Jon spent most of the car ride to Tim’s flat crying, apologizing, gibbering about god knows what, and looking more than a little like he was going to be very ill (something Tim would have worried about if he wasn’t reasonably sure Jon had already expelled everything in him before Tim managed to half carry him out of the Archives). (He debated A&E, but ultimately decided Jon might accidentally compel the staff and cause a lot of problems. But if Tim couldn’t get his fever down, or get him to keep down liquids, then he’d take him in.) Tim tried to find it irritating, but honestly it had just made his heart hurt. 

Jon just whimpers. 

Tim gently cards his fingers through Jon’s hair. Jon shivers a little. This flu has been going around the Archives but even though Jon has been the last to catch it, he seems to have it the worst. Tim doesn’t think he was ever this far gone. (Martin would probably be the one here if he wasn’t still sleeping off the last of his fight with this.)

Jon blinks a few more times, swallows drily, and asks, “Tim….? Wha’ you doing? Thought you were out today?”

“First day back. Found you passed out in the loo.” Tim hasn’t decided if he wants to be nice. (A bit late to not be, considering he drove Jon to his (Tim’s) flat and is letting Jon cuddle him even though Jon is kind of disgusting at this point and is going to share the leftovers of the soup and medicine and lucozade he stocked up on the moment he knew he was coming down with something.)

Jon squirms a bit so he’s looking up at Tim. His face going from confusion, to embarrassment, to dawning realization when he (presumably) he notices he’s partially in Tim’s lap. “You hate me.” It’s a question, but not a question of if Tim hates him. 

Jon’s slurring. Which can’t possibly be good. Tim takes in his puzzled look and takes that to mean ‘Hey Tim, I’m too much of an arsehole to thank you for letting me use you as a well toned body pillow let’s jump right into the boo hoo I’m a victim of the universe and I’ll take everyone down with me and I know this so why could someone I’ve so terribly wronged be being nice to me.’ No. That’s not right. And that’s not fair. Tim does want to blame Jon for everything. But that would make him a hypocrite. Sure Tim didn’t stalk his coworkers after the Prentiss thing, but where Jon got paranoid, he got angry. They both pushed each other away. Not to mention…. he did accuse Jon of murder…. which is what he was angry at Jon for accusing him of…. It is Jon’s fault that he is stuck in the archives, but Jon’s just as stuck as he is. And it’s not Jon’s fault that Sasha... He’s not a heartless dick, he couldn’t just leave Jon to possibly drown himself in the toilet. 

“Debatable.” Tim can’t really explain it any better than that for now. He blames Jon, yeah. Sure. Easy. Of course he blames Jon. …But he knows it isn’t Jon’s fault, and as much as he wants to forget that. He can’t. And he can’t forget the years of friendship before all this. Maybe they weren’t as close as he presumes he and Sasha were… but they were close. 

Jon looks even more confused. And then he looks rather nauseous. He closes his eyes again. 

“I need you to drink something before you pass out again.” He should probably try to be nicer, because Jon flinches at his tone, and tries to make himself even smaller. 

This isn’t news. Jon has flinched because of Tim a lot. He knows he shouldn’t be proud of this, but he is. 

“And don’t puke on my couch.”

Jon just whines. 

Tim gets impatient and mostly carefully leavers Jon up enough that he can press a Lucozade into his hands. 

Jon’s eyes flick open slowly. He blinks a few times as he tries to comprehend what he’s holding. 

“You’re supposed to drink that,” Tim says helpfully. 

“Thought you wanted me not to puke.”

Tim is reasonable sure that was supposed to be a joke, but Jon’s eyes squeeze tight against dizziness, so Tim nudges the bin he preset nearer. 

“Drink the goddamn thing or I’ll have to take you to A&E and I’ll really be fucking pissed.” There isn’t any real heat to Tim’s words. But that doesn’t stop Jon for fumbling with the lid. 

Christ he looks so pathetic. His hands are shaking almost too badly to get it to his mouth and he would not be vertical if Tim let go. And sad. Was he just stuck with those damn puppy dog eyes? 

But could Tim really blame him? Enough people have kicked the shit out of Jon that he really can’t blame Jon for looking like a kicked puppy. 

Jon drinks cautiously. He looks mildly surprised when nothing bad happens. 

Tim props him up against the back of the couch so he can pass Jon some more fever reducers. Jon carefully takes those as well. He shakily closes the still half full sports drink and closes his eyes again. He’s listing sideways. 

~~~~~~~

It’s dark out when Jon wakes up again. He can’t quite recall what time of day it was when he was last conscious. He thinks he might be slightly more aware. Possibly. 

He’s still shivering and he still feels like death. Grand. 

Something shifts under him and he starts. 

Oh. Right. Tim. 

“Jon, you awake?”

Since when does Tim talk to him like a person? Like he hadn’t fucked up that badly. 

“Jon?”

Right. Yes. He’s supposed to answer. He swallows. His throat feels like sandpaper. “Ngk.” Well. Not quite a word, but close enough, right? It is enough to start him coughing in any case.

“Jesus Christ, Jon!”

Jon is hoisted into a sitting position fast enough to make his head swim. He closes his eyes tightly to try to stop the room from spinning, but he’s still coughing and now he’s queasy again. 

By the time he catches his breath, tears are streaming down his face and he can feel someone (Tim) rubbing his back. It feels…. Jon isn’t sure how it feels, but a lot and it makes his skin prickle not unpleasantly. 

“Jesus Fuck Jon.”

Jon doesn’t have the air to answer. He feels himself sway. He is lowered back down and a straw pushed into his mouth. He cracks one eye open and sees a very blurry Tim (shit where have his glasses gone?) holding the same sports drink, this time with an addition of a .... is that a margarita straw? The Eye helpfully informs him that it is. Jon takes some careful sips until his throat feels a little less awful. 

He can see Tim’s mouth moving. He hears his voice but he’s a little too far gone to make out words. 

Tim has been keeping up what he hopes is comforting, soothing one sided conversation. He hopes. He hopes it might help Jon, but Jon seems pretty far from aware right right now. 

“You’d probably rather have water or tea right now but I’m not Martin, and well... I think you need the salt and sugar...”

Jon only manages a few sips before the straw drops from his mouth. 

“Come on, Jon. There’s no way you aren’t dehydrated. I don’t want to take you to A&E. You don’t want to go to A&E. You really don’t want me to take you to A&E.”

“Sorry...”. Christ his voice is weak. 

“Stop apologizing. You have done that to death today. Maybe try again when you’re conscious. Maybe I’ll even accept it.”

“Sorry.”

Tim sighs. Obviously that’s not going to get through to Jon right now. “Come on. You’ve got to drink more. You lost a fuck ton of liquids. I know you did. You haven’t even begun to make up for that.”

Jon whines. Tim checks once again that there’s a bin within easy reach. He still presses the straw to Jon’s mouth. 

Jon drinks. 

It takes a painfully long time, but he keeps it down. Tim waits a wile to make sure that continues to be the case before he nudges Jon. “You up for some soup?” 

Jon considers for a very long moment. He’s having trouble concentrating on the question and honestly he’s hoping Tim will come up with an answer for him. 

“Jon?” 

“Maybe?” It’s hardly a whisper. 

“Let’s try sitting you up first, okay?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thrilling adventure of Tim trying to get Jon to eat some soup.   
> CW food, nausea, and fainting  
> Folks, this took forever I used to be a fast writer... once upon a time. I probably should proof-read this, but that isn't going to happen. There might possibly be a third chapter sometime, but I tried to give this a satisfying conclusion in case I never did write more.

Being upright isn’t agreeing with Jon. Although, calling his position upright was charitable. He was propped up by the arm of the sofa and also by Tim. He was trying to convince himself to eat some soup with very limited success. He really doesn’t want to eat anything, but him eating this seems very important to Tim (for reasons Jon can’t quite comprehend) and he wants to avoid making Tim angry. Jon’s body does not want the soup in him, and neither does Jon himself. He hates throwing up. He just wants to sleep.   
But Tim. He doesn’t want Tim to yell at him. He isn’t certain that Tim will yell at him if he doesn’t eat, but Tim gave it to him so he doesn’t want to waste it. 

Tim watches Jon zone out at his soup again. Jon has been zoning out over his soup for the last half hour. Tim has been trying to ignore him, which isn’t an easy accomplishment when Jon is half slumped over him giving off heat like a shitty school radiator that no one bothered to turn off in May. He’s managed to read most of a novel, listen to his current favorite playlist twice, and beat several levels of wordscapes on his phone. (Not since Jon started …. well, not eating, but staring at soup, since he got Jon back to his flat. Tim has been playing wordscapes since Jon started staring at soup).   
Tim sighs, Jon jumps, clearly panicked. Tim has no idea what he is panicked about. Nothing is happening. If he doesn’t want to eat why didn’t he just say something?   
“Boss, if you aren’t hungry, you don’t have to eat it.”  
Jon starts again at Tim’s voice, but he gets no other response.   
“Boss? ….Jon?…..Jonathan!”   
Nothing. 

Tim is trying to talk to him. Jon can hear him. He just can’t understand him over the headache and how sick he feels. Tim is calling his name, and he doesn’t know what he wants. All Jon knows is that Tim is getting louder? Or is he. (He’s never sure of volume when he’s feverish. Words echo around inside his brain just getting louder with every reverberation.) He’s coughing again, and the bowl is no longer in his hands and he just wants everything to stop because there are words echoing and coughs echoing and it’s unbearably loud.   
Is Tim yelling at him? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know but what did he do wrong this time? He wants to ask what he did, but he just coughs harder. 

Tim isn’t sure what is happening. One moment he’s trying to get the untouched soup out of Jon’s lap the next, Jon is panicking and coughing and covered in soup, and he’s trying to ask what the hell is going on but Jon isn’t hearing or responding to him. He tries to pry away the bowl before Jon can spill any more, but Jon flinches so violently away from Tim that he ends up on his feet (and the rest of the soup on the floor).   
Jon sways and Tim stands up ready to steady him, but Jon hacks out, “Don’t touch me!” He has his arms up, trying to shield himself from any hypothetical attack.   
Tim almost growls. “You stupid fuck let me take care of you! Just make it easier on both of us!” He knows he is raising his voice. He knows that isn’t going to help anything. But he can’t help it. He’s trying to help. He’s being Nice, or something close to it. And this idiot is still trying to fight him.   
This just makes Jon scramble backwards on clearly shaking legs, blinking dizzily.   
Tim takes another couple steps, because Jon is obviously not going to be standing or possibly even conscious for much longer.   
Tim is proven correct because Jon whispers, “Don’t hurt me!” pitifully and immediately topples forward into Tim’s arms. Which alarms Tim more, because is Jon really that afraid of him? 

Of course having his arms full of a soup-drenched, unconscious Jon means that Tim is also covered in soup. Now what is he supposed to do? Tim sighs. He doesn’t want to undress Jon. Not like this. If they were as close as they had been, maybe? But that was a long time ago.   
Tim lays Jon gently on the floor so he can spread out a couple towels on his bed. Then he picks the still unconscious Jon up and put him on the towels to keep the soup off his sheets. (He still needs to give those a wash but his germs and Jon’s germs are probably the same, so ehhhh that can wait). 

Somewhere between Tim getting out of his also soup covered clothes, and cleaning the soup covered floor, Jon seems to have come to and drifted off into a fitful sleep. (Tim knows he should have probably been checking on Jon more, but Jon is fairly prone to fainting, so him collapsing isn’t overly concerning. He just …won’t tell Martin.) ((SHIT, MARTIN. He should probably text Martin about this… But maybe not now, best to let Martin rest. Some part of Tim still wants to say that it’s better to keep the bastard far away from him. Tim tries to squash that thought. Jon isn’t a bastard. A prick, yes… but not a bastard. Elias is the bastard.) Tim doesn’t quite have the heart to wake him up and try to get him cleaned off, so he just leaves him there. Just until it’s time for Jon to get more meds in him.   
What Tim won’t admit is that he uses a damp flannel to get the worst of the soup off of Jon, and that he spends about and hour carding his fingers through Jon’s hair, because it seems to make his sleep a little less uneasy. And maybe he won’t complain too much about how he absolutely will need another fresh pair of joggers because Jon is getting his soup covered self all over him again. (Well…. maybe he’ll complain a little…. but not until Jon is healthy and Martin is healthy and he’s complaining to Martin over a pint or two or three and watching Jon turn bright red out of embarrassment.)   
For now he just continues sitting his vigil. (And beating another few levels of wordscapes.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon continues to have a bad time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw panic attack, I don't think it's too graphic, but .....it might be a little graphic? I was half asleep writing this, and my weird, very slightly body horror ish flowery language got the best of me. But I don't think it's enough body horror to tag?  
> Jon is washed by Tim, but with clear consent and nothing occurs other than Jon getting soup off of him and the two of them talking a little.   
> Let me know if I need any more warnings!  
> Enjoy!

What starts to concern Tim is that Jon’s restless sleep is filled with a lot more thrashing and mumbling just a short half hour after Jon falls asleep. Tim doesn’t know if it is a good or a bad sign that he can’t make out any words. Jon is starting to feel even more worryingly warm under his hands as he attempts to calm him down. He gets another damp flannel, hoping that cooling Jon down will help (that usually works for Tim, probably some sort of grounding thing, but for Jon maybe it will help with the fever and thusly help with the nightmares).   
Or maybe startle him awake so Tim can try to get more medicine and fluids in him…. and hose him off or something so Tim can actually tuck him in. He is certain Jon will be a little more calm without the rough texture of his Very old towels against his skin. That and the congealed soup texture are probably contributing to the uneasy sleep. Not to mention all the actual you know… horrors that they’ve seen. Tim knows his brain throws him some pretty fucked up shit, even worse when he’s running a fever (not that that happens often thankfully (because who would even be there to take care of him? He is just as bad as Jon, pushing people away, and he knows it)). 

Jon wakes up with a pressure on his lungs. The feeling that the air is as thick as pea soup. The feeling for all the gases in the atmosphere, none of the oxygen is reaching his brain. That he can’t even breathe in. He’s woken up from many choking nightmares after dragging Tim and Daisy out of the buried, but they never get easier. In fact, this once was worse. Not only does he feel like he’s been run over several times, (not to mention the hot and cold feelings of that worsening fever that he would have forgotten about if not for the Eye helpfully feeding him every fluctuation in his temperature), but the sticky, heated hell scape of his unconscious mind was filled with spider’s legs and Tim’s voice echoing that he doesn’t forgive him.   
The choking roots and jabbing rocks, a fine grit that refused to wash out of his skin and his clothes and his hair. Roots around his ankles, roots around his lungs. Dirt underneath his fingernails (already cut so short after his first brush with the corruption).   
There is something tacky on his skin. Something tacky on his clothes. If he had the air to smell it, it would have made him gag. He almost gags on the too-close air. Gag on the roots around him, on the grit. Gag on his own idiocy: Couldn’t keep one of his only friends. 

Jon’s awake. At least Tim is pretty sure. He’s screaming and gasping for air and coughing and his eyes are open at the very least. Tim catches his hands as he tries to tear at his skin and his clothes, Tim can’t tell which, but it’s probably the half dried soup on his clothes, the likely not-quite-clean feeling that sweat and that same soup have left on his skin, despite Tim’s best efforts to clean them off. Like a restaurant table that could never really be cleaned by a damp sponge.   
It becomes quickly apparent that Jon is spiraling into a panic attack. Heaving breaths that shake his slight frame, Jon fights to free his hands (probably to fan himself, Tim’s memory supplies. Jon will fan himself with anything available when panicking. Tim’s walked Jon through a lot of panic attacks). Tim’s right hand easily engulfs Jon’s boney wrists, so Tim holds him back (just in case he would have hurt himself) with his right while he retrieve the discarded flannel with the other, carefully placing in on the back of Jon’s neck and trying to guide him upright enough to stick his head between his knees. 

Jon struggles between heaving breaths and rattling coughs, grabbling hold of Tim, once Tim releases his hands. Tim tries to keep up a soothing babble, but that was always Martin’s area, not his. 

It takes longer than Tim would like to calm him down. Not just in the sense that Tim would rather be doing anything else, but also in the sense that the fever is making Jon even more on edge than usual, and Jon’s not even thinking clearly enough to understand what is happening to him. Under better circumstances, Jon usually can tell he’s having a panic attack, and even used to joke with Tim while he was recovering, making idle commentary about how his hands were still numb (Tim is still not certain if that is a normal symptom of a panic attack or if Jon just has really really poor circulation; he’s never lost feeling in his hands before while panicking.) and other comments to assure Tim that he would be alright. (Of course, it’s been a while since Tim’s talked him through a panic attack, there was another time not too long ago that he probably caused several himself. And he sure seems back on the track to causing Jon more tonight.)  
Now, Jon keeps scrabbling at his clothes, at Tim, and anything he can. Trying to get His shirt off, to get the ‘bed off’ (Jon’s word’s, not Tim’s), everything off. Everything except Tim, who he tried to grab onto whenever he could. He started up with the apologies again, much to Tim’s chagrin. And he keeps apologizing well past recovering his breath.   
Tim tries to be annoyed, and nearly manages it. But... Jon looks worse. Tim isn’t sure if it’s just the panic attack or if his fever is higher (damn, Tim really ought to have a thermometer), but he looks so delicate and so afraid. Jon looks properly worn through. Like each year has stripped something off of him, like each mark has carved more than skin away. It shakes away most of his earlier (partly feigned annoyance) and replaces it with a long buried protective urge. He bites down on that, not quite ready to forgive. But he does owe Jon an apology. He shouldn’t have been so short with him when he is like this. Just because he isn’t ready to forgive doesn’t mean that he should be a dick about it. And it was a dick move to yell at Jon like that. Hell, if he hadn’t, Jon probably wouldn’t have passed out, and wouldn’t have had that nightmare, and wouldn’t have freaked out. Thinking as he has on that, since his attention was turned to Jon and not his phone, he feels like shit, not even from the last of the fatigue that stretched on long after his own fever had broken. 

Once Jon can breathe again, he ducks his head immediately into the wall of warmth that has been holding him steady, and he sobs. He’s scared. He doesn’t remember where he is. The cloying smell of soup his making him more queasy than he can ever remember being, He’s cold. He is miserable. He would very much like to not be conscious. He curls tightly around his middle, and ever closer to whoever is holding him. 

“Jon?”  
That’s Tim’s voice, isn’t it? Jon doesn’t know what Tim is doing here. Jon doesn’t remember what he is doing anywhere. (He as in Jon, not he as in Tim.) Doesn’t Tim hate him?   
“Boss, you with me?”  
Jon doesn’t particularly trust himself to open his mouth without something bad happening, so he just groans.   
“Boss, I need to get you to cool down a little. Not sure if that actually helps with your fever, but I think a cool shower will help the panic, and certainly get you a little less soup-y?”  
“Mmph,” Jon makes himself grunt so Tim won’e be angry at him for ignoring a question.   
“Is it alright if I help you? I think you’d feel better in some clean clothes and actually in a bed rather than on it, but I’m not gonna wash you if you don’t consent. I know we aren’t on the best of terms, but consent is important. Tim Stoker guarantee (not to mention basic decency).”  
Jon frankly doesn’t give a fuck at this point. Cooling off sounds good. Getting rid of the soup smell might make him less afraid of opening his mouth. He wants to trust Tim. And he does in so far that he knows that Tim would never take advantage of him. Not like this. He might still be afraid that Tim might hit him, or yell, or throw him out on his ass in the street, but in this… he trusts Tim.   
“Jon, Boss… Buddy. I need your explicit consent. If you aren’t up for talking, which if you aren’t I don’t fucking blame you… You sound really rough. Tap once for yes, twice for no.”  
Jon taps once on Tim’s chest, moving as little as possible. 

Tim slowly maneuvers himself upright, Jon held gently in his arms, and even more gently lifts him. Jon pales rather dramatically at the change in position, clutches at Tim’s shirt, eyes closed tightly, and swallows hard.   
“You okay?” Tim mentally reviews where all his bins are.   
Jon scrunches up his face, but eventually taps once on Tim’s chest.   
Tim studies him carefully for a bit, and watches his face closely as he carries Jon, looking out for Jon’s ‘gonna puke’ face. 

Jon is too pliant when Tim strips him and sets him shivering in the bathtub. Tim knows just how much Jon takes baths, but there is no way Jon will be up for standing to shower. The best Tim can do is run him a lukewarm bath and then maybe rinse him off afterwards.   
Jon shivers pathetically as the water levels start to rise around him. But it’s better he be here in the washroom in …just in case. Tim wishes Martin were with him. Jon might be a little calmer if he were on better terms with the person attempting to take care of him, even if Tim probably knows more about dealing with a sick Jon. 

Jon dozes as Tim cleans him off the best he can without crossing any of Jon’s boundaries. (Tim thinks he will keep this part out of any later retellings at the pub, for Jon’s dignity and privacy.)  
Jon starts apologizing again when Tim reaches his hair. 

“I wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t get soup everywhere, you prick.” Tim’s tone is light, and he ribs without thinking. He works shampoo through Jon’s ever lengthening locks, using one hand to shield Jon’s half lidded eyes from the soap. It takes a lot longer like that, but Jon is so ...floppy. He can’t leave Jon to get soap in his eyes.   
“‘M sorry Tim. N-not about the soup. Well… about the soup as well…. Fuck.... ’m so sorry. Sorry I shouldn’t even be here. You should ‘ve just left me…” The mumbled apologies just get more bleak from there. “Eye probably won’t let me die… and if it did at least you wouldn’t have to deal with me.”  
Tim sucks in a breath. It chills Tim that Jon is thinking that way. He isn’t surprised, but it is still upsetting to hear. Especially since these are words only pried out with a scorching fever. Not something that he throws around.   
Besides.... he was right there too. Before the Unknowing.   
“No Jon, you are not going to die. I can’t forgive you now, because I won’t let you die until I have. And even then I won’t fucking let you. Don’t you dare! Don’t test me, Sims. I won’t lose anyone else. Even if you are my shitty, paranoid boss.”  
“Sorry,” Jon mumble again, head drooping precariously.   
Tim growls and is a little rough rinsing Jon’s hair, leaving him spluttering which sets him off coughing again.   
Tim has to take a deep breath before speaking again. “You aren’t That shitty, boss. Just a little. Just… stop apologizing for five fucking minutes. I don’t want to here another “sorry” until your fever has broken. And maybe keep it to once a week? That way it might mean something, and hell, maybe my response will mean something too. But it can’t right now. I’m too ....fuck I don’t even know, and you’re out of your mind. And it can’t mean anything… Not when you are still afraid of me. Not when I still snap at you. And certainly not when I am not even sure you’ll remember any of this in a couple hours. Take me to the pub, when you’re well. Or make me dinner. Don’t apologize then either, and just maybe I’ll invite you next time. And maybe someday in a bread and wine coma (a food coma not another spooky one, you hear me?) Maybe in a bread and wine coma, maybe then our words will mean something other than placations and trying to stick a butterfly bandage over a chunk of missing flesh? But right now, Jonathan Fucking Sims, you are going to stop apologizing and you are going to get better.” Tim punctuates his speech by draining the bathtub and giving Jon, a slightly-harsher-than-necissary and slightly-colder-than-necissary once over with the detached shower-head, leaving the slighter man shivering even more than before, and looking smaller than ever.   
“Do you hear me Jonathan Sims?” It takes Tim a minute to catch his eye, and Jon might be more focused on the towel being gently wrapped around him, but he manages.   
Jon, blinking more sluggishly by the minute, and shivering violently (although his temperature is a little less profound after the tepid bath) nods. “I hear you… Dinner at mine?” He croaks out.   
Tim shushes him, not unkindly, but still harshly. “Ask me when you’re well.”   
Jon is bundled in Tim’s spare pajamas (that are more than a little large on him), handed some more medicine and sports drink, and Tim changes again (much to his slight annoyance. He’s going to have to do so much laundry), and Jon is held by Tim, in Tim’s bed, with more than a little hope that things might just get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for putting up with my weird metaphors and for bearing with me! This is it for this fic, properly this time. This is where the outline was always meant to go, and I am just as surprised as you are that I reached the end! You can find me at captaincravatthecapricious on tumblr where I am Far more active and do a lot more art (and I take requests wink wink nudge nudge). Have an excellent day! -Jasper

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Drop me a comment if you like it, and that will make me more likely to want to write more. Come visit me at captaincravatthecapricious on tumblr, I do art sometimes!


End file.
